Symbol Of Gotham
by Pandora's Teapot
Summary: Harley Quinn reflects on her relationship with The Joker, her place in Gotham, and where she stands at the end of the day. Please note: it is my policy to read stories from people who review, so please review!


**SYMBOL OF GOTHAM (The Real Harley Quinn)**

**By Pandora Skye**

Usually, I'm a pretty happy kind o' gal, but lately I've been gettin' a tad hot under the collar, if you know what I mean. You see, everyone thinks I'm just a little blonde ditz, more cartoon than villain, the lovesick screw-up who suffers one too many manic episodes per day. I know what they all think about me, the Joker's twisted game with the lost little girl who stumbled unwittingly into his claws at Arkham Asylum. So many people like old Batsy and Gordon and even my best rosebud Poison Ivy think I'm Mister J's doormat, his hopeless victim, succumbing to his every sadistic whim. Well of course nobody ever remembers the time _I _shot_ him_.

The truth is, Mister J treats me with more respect than anyone. The papers print a lot about me that ain't very nice or very accurate. Speakin' of which, I didn't think it was legal to print false and slanderous information in the newspapers, but that's Gotham City for you, the cops are always more interested in folks like me and Mister J than the real crooks workin' for the press. Well I say no more! It's high time Gotham City knew the real Harley Quinn.

So. Where to begin? They say the beginning is the best place to start, but everyone knows how it all began. Besides, the beginning is usually where you slop up, you know, the whole fall from grace thing. I'd rather get down to what's important, the good stuff, the sparklies that make me the gal I am. So why don't I just tell you how it is everyday then.

Every night, I immediately slip into my skin tight rubber pants after I wake. Red on my right leg, black on my left, low cut around the hip to show the diamonds that Mister J carved into the flesh when I first joined him. It takes quite a bit of talcum powder to get into them, but once they're on it's like runnin' around in the nude. There's a strap and buckle on the black thigh where I holster my serrated hunting knife and a belt I wear specifically to hold my two favourite guns: A boxing glove extendable and the custom revolver that Mister J gave me complete with bullets that read 'knock knock 'em dead" in a little pouch beside the holster.

Once secured, I slip into my boots – rubber soled for grip and stealth – again colour coordinated with thick, solid platform heels, just as Mister J demands it. Next comes a black lace singlet with red trim, coverin' my home made tats – a tapestry of Joker inflicted scars that include the famous 'J'tags, more diamonds, smiley faces, and the long, deep gashes that usually need stitches. Only Mister J can decide when and who will see them, since he considers each scar a symbol of himself. Over the top of this, I slip on a black leather waist coat, tyin' it if the weather is cold.

I tie my blonde hair into two rough pigtails (not because it's cute, but because I honestly couldn't be assed wearin' my harlequin hat and mask all the time, so they're the next best thing) with one red and one black ribbon either side. Years of hangin' out at night and sleepin' all day has made my skin milky white, I don't need the face paint anymore, so I use my fingers to messily apply two rose coloured circles on my cheeks and shade black shadows and harlequin lines around my bright blue eyes. A splash of crimson lipstick and I'm all done, ready to work.

Once I check on the guards and get any reports from them, I immediately check the safe to be sure that none of Mister J's bits and pieces have been tampered with while he slept. Usually that's when the screamin' starts. When he wakes, our pet hyenas are fed right away: fresh meat, usually caught hangin' around our hideout late at night. Mister J says it starts his day with a smile to be a responsible hyena owner and a concerned Gotham citizen by reducin' the number of homeless vagrants in the city. Dependin' on his mood, he either begins preparin' for Batman related mischief or insists on visitin' the Stacked Deck first.

Purple coat and hat on, he drapes his long, lanky arm over my shoulders as we walk to the infamous bar. Nights like this he's all smiles, more dangerous than usual. I feel safe when I stand beside him though, his prized possession held safely in the looming grasp of the ominous shadow he casts over me when we walk together, the result of my bein' petite and he bein' quite tall. Sometimes we talk on the way, but mostly he just smiles and laughs softly under his breathe, thinkin' of the night to come until we reach the bar. At the doors, his grip on my shoulders tightens for a moment, he winks at me with a smile and offers me his elbow. I link my arm around his and place the free hand on my gun, just in case.

We enter the Stacked Deck, an act that always provokes a sudden silence and rise in tension until Mister J removes his hat and ushers me through a doorway behind the bar. He settles in to talk business with others like us – Harvey Two Face, Professor Crane the Scarecrow, sometimes even the Riddler or Killer Croc. Meanwhile, I get ready for the show. Waist coat off, singlet off, hair out and combed before wriggling into the red and black rubber, hip length top that zips right up the front middle. I pull the hood of the top over my head and tuck my hair neatly under the jester shaped cap. I check myself in the mirror, touch up the black shadows around my eyes before puttin' on my black eye mask. Ready.

The lights go dim, but as I step onto the wooden platform floor, I can see him at the back of the club watchin' with a grin. The music builds into a rhythmic chaos of distorted guitars and sickly electronic bass as the lights blast onto the stage, blinding and exhilaratin' at the same time. Everyone is meant to appreciate my performance, but no one is to enjoy it or the Joker will kill them personally. I dance slow some nights, frantic others, but always with Mister J in mind. We do this because he likes his competitors to watch as I run my hands across my bare, scar inflicted flesh, knowin' that each scar is his, each movement is his, each inch of flesh is his, and that he can flaunt it shamelessly, because this city is his. Just like me. So when I finally pull my gun from the holster and brandish it as I dance half naked before them all, not a eye blinks until I pull the trigger and some poor fool is lyin' dead in a pool of his own blood. No one moves or speaks, it's never safe to do so while the Joker is laughin'.

When the show is over, I dress carefully before reportin' back to Mister J's side. He always smiles when I come to him, so it's hard to tell if he's gonna be nice or not. Sometimes he treats me like his girl, sometimes like his whore, sometimes like his child, sometimes like his enemy. Depends on his mood. But when no one else is around, well, those are the times I love best with Mister J. Those are the times I know he cares about me and appreciates me.

To the Joker, I'm a symbol that represents Gotham. He marks it as he pleases, destroys it as he pleases, enjoys it as he pleases, boasts it as he pleases, and possesses it with a vicious obsession that none dare challenge. Well, except for the Batman. But even he doesn't get it. Once, he asked Mister J what he'd choose if it came down to me or the city. Mister J just laughed and said with a smile, "I'm the Joker, I don't have to choose anything!" You see, it can't come down to choices, because Mister J _is_ Gotham City, and Mister J is me, Harley Quinn too. Without Mister J, I'm just a hopeless nobody livin' with a frown only he can turn upside down.

The battles with Batsy are where I really shine. Did you know that I am currently wanted, convicted, or suspected of over 67 murders, 84 counts of theft, 102 counts of grievous bodily harm, 91 counts of illegal firearm possession, 18 unauthorized escapes from Arkham Asylum and Gotham County Prison, as well as various countless charges of aggravated assault, terrorist activity, and resistin' arrest? Pretty impressive, huh? And my list of partnerships is somethin' to envy: the Joker, Poison Ivy, Two Face, the Riddler, hey even Bats! And who do you suppose helped provide the Joker with his stronghold over Arkham Asylum? Me, of course! I don't know why Bats is so sure that I'm corrupted by Mister J, if only he knew how many times the Joker just wanted to stay home and watch Laurel & Hardy instead of givin' in to my boredom. There'd be a few less explosions in Gotham City if I weren't so bored, believe me.

But at the end of each evening, when the sun is comin' up over the skyscrapers and the smoke from the nights work is still billowin' into the clouds, I sit all by myself on the roof of our hideout. Lookin' out over the city, I can feel her shifting with pain and somethin' more electric as she comes to life after our assault. An urban corpse, a metro skeleton suddenly reminded that it's still alive, just like I feel when the Joker cuts me.

The real Harley Quinn is somethin' more than just a sidekick with a perky little showgirl voice and a taste for the fast life. I'm a symbol, like the Batman, but I'm the Joker's symbol. Somethin' good but depressed rescued and changed into somethin' bad but happy, just like how he did it with Gotham. He created this city, made it into somethin' grand, it belongs to him.

Just like me, the real Harley Quinn.

*** A short story by Pandora Skye, as adapted from the characters of the DC Comics classic, Batman. These characters are not original and have been borrowed for the purpose of paying tribute to the epic (and twisted) love of The Joker and Harley Quinn. Pandora Skye whole heartedly supports all Arkham Asylum inmates in the crusade for the total demise of Batman, even if he is the coolest superhero ever. On that note, everyone should know and love who they are, even if you are one of Gotham's most wanted. X PS.**


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